Hope For Now
by opti-mnff
Summary: Everyone who loves you just seems to wither away. Why should she be any different?


**A/N: **Once again inspired by a drabble on the good 'ole Tumblr. This is a combination of something I had half-written and a request from a cool person. If you want to be as cool as them, leave drabble requests in my inbox. Or review. Either way, it's pretty rad.

Oh, and the second-person style is a bit hard to come to terms with and picture, I know. But this didn't feel right written any other way. As always, I'm not Jeff Davis or any sort of writer working under him.

* * *

You're thinking none of this will work, nothing here ever works. Why should _this _of all things end up wrapped up neatly, and with her? Lydia may have been your childhood crush, years of pent-up sexual frustration aimed towards her, but that wasn't the situation anymore. You think about what she has to say when she speaks, and sometimes you disagree – you have arguments about fundamentally differing views. Every word that comes out of her mouth is no longer some magical epiphany. Stilinski no longer puts Martin up on some unreachable pedestal, and now they're together. You're enjoying yourself.

But you know it won't last.

Something inside is telling you to give up and leave on a high note lest the fate of this relationship be like the others. A Lydia that's alive and totally ignorant of you is infinitely better than imagining going on like this until she – like all the others – ups and dies. Even thinking about it makes the black swirls around your heart tighten, and the images floating in your head make you want to curl up and pretend none of this exists. You'll fall asleep, alone in bed, and wake up just like that: alone.

Instead, you feel a rustling beside you and the wish to just get her away from you is gone. Now you pull her back into your chest and kiss her gently on the temple, hearing her mumble something totally inaudible as she falls quickly back to sleep. But the rush is soon gone, and your arms feel weak. The grip you have on her feels fragile and infinitesimal. The warm body beneath you begins to feel cold and you can see the flesh begin to wither and disappear entirely. You can see her decompose in front of you, just by being around you.

Then the next moment, after you try to blink the images away, you see inquisitive eyes staring back.

"You okay?" She asks, real worry in her voice. IT makes your heart sink, imagining what you _have _to do next.

"Sorry, bad dream." Instead of confronting the situation, you'll just have to put it off for now. Her answer is that you had been quietly telling her to leave. As she continues describing the events that had unfolded – even escalating to wildly yelling at her – you're stomach clenches and every nerve feelings smashed together into some sort of uncomfortable muscular cacophony.

If you had been near physical violence with her, by her telling of things, it amazed you she was still here. Why would anyone willingly stay with you after what had happened to any girl or woman that seemed to even care a little about him. Your mother, Heather, Erica, hell even Cora were all gone from your life – most of them permanently. And now Lydia was lining up to join the crowd, to slip into the Stiles-induced pattern of death and decay.

"Why are you even still here?" Your words seem flat and uninspired. Like you're just reading from your script; playing the part. This felt unnatural. It was wrong, but the words kept coming despite the resistance, "Why do you even bother? Everyone who's gotten close to me my whole life dies."

The confusion on her face would be comical if your heart didn't sink at the truth of those words. It just couldn't happen without her ending up disfigured, dead, or worse. That's just how the evidence adds up – it all points back to you, to poor little Stiles.

"What are you talking about, Stiles?" Now she's annoyed and there's exasperation in the syllables. You deserve it – you just sprung it on her without much lead up. Lydia was by your side the first time you saw your mother again, or the figment of your imagination that masqueraded as your mother. Even so, you pretended there was nothing to worry about.

"For someone so smart you just don't get it – girls don't do too well around me. They tend to die," you say, your voice heavy and throat dry. The words felt unearned and pathetic. She didn't deserve this, even if she were better off without you. Now he was forcing her to make a choice, one that he would never be able to make in her shoes. The onus was on her because you're not strong enough to think about it and make it yourself.

"And boys tend to turn into wolfpeople and lizards around me. Your point is?" She deflects the choice so easily, like she knows it too. Lydia doesn't want to make it either, and you can sense it. The way her hands grip yours tighter, her breaths quicken and the unease in her eyes all warns you she can't make the decision either. Or that she's already made it, "I think I'll be fine."

But you won't, some part of you wants to say. That's not how it works, you think. It's a rigid system of the dead and those who ignore you. No in-betweens and caring about someone would never work. Reciprocation meant losing them.

"I can't watch you die, Lydia. I've already lost my mom. I can't, okay? I just- I just can't."

Again the words sound fleeting, as if someone else spoke them in your absence. Everything about them is false – a fake Stiles you never want to have to be. It's the mask you put on to let those around you survive: the sarcasm and all. It's all it ever is – a coping mechanism for you to manage your friends and loved ones. Keep a certain level of detachment and everyone keeps their head.

"Stiles, you can't say that and pretend like that it's going to make me feel good about this," she sounds hurt when she responds. Everything you're saying is a self-centered mess meant to hide yourself. It's that protective detachment and nonchalance that you pride yourself on now coming back to haunt your days.

Some days you go on without an incident. You see Lydia, you two kiss and talk, and it's fine. Everything's fine, until you get even closer. You go to her house, you sleep with her and it's like every childhood fantasy come to life before your eyes. Then it's the mornings. Waking up to a blood-spattered room and running, running far away is all you have. Some nights you see a figure take her from the bed, others you awake to lifeless staring. Some days you find that she doesn't understand you whatsoever.

Then you come out of those stupors, sitting elsewhere in the school – in the cafeteria when previously you were in physics, talking to Finstock when you swore you had been talking to Lydia in her room. Just like now – you swore you were just waking up, but apparently had been screaming at her for no real reason.

"I don't like it either." Again you're pathetic. Pathetic, useless Stiles who can't do anything for anyone other than stay away from them and let them ignore his existence. You could harbor all of this darkness yourself. There was no need to let it seep into Lydia's life now. She didn't deserve that.

"Then what are we even talking about?" Again the deflection.

"How if you stay with me you'll die before the year's out?" There was blame in your words, a venomous accusation. Lydia _deserved _the reality of their situation.

"Insufficient data," she said primly. You chuckle a little, and feel that darkness peel itself off the tiniest margin of your thoughts.

"Why are you pretending like you don't agree with me? I can tell, Lydia. I can sense it, okay?" Now that _was _weak. Even if the previous conversation felt out of place, this just felt like lying.

"You're just hearing what you want to hear. It's confirmation bias, Stiles. You're perceiving that I believe what you're saying is the right thing just because you want it to be, for whatever reason." Her eyes lower and her face darkens in that same inquisitive way you love. She's trying to unravel a puzzle, and it's quite possibly the cutest thing you've ever seen. And yes, 'cute' is the exact word, "Unless you're just trying to cover up what you want with something so apparently dire."

That couldn't be the truth, could it? You take her hand and kiss it softly. You don't want to have to answer that. Every molecule of your being is against it, but your head isn't. The warped, bleak landscape that was left up there didn't believe it could work. You tell her that, and she smiles sadly. You can see Lydia squint and blink away tears. You'd never understand how she felt about you. That way she just seemed to switch from being a good, close friend to the girl that seemed to genuinely care for him. And that was the problem.

"No."

That's all she said. Her lips were tight, face determined, when she spoke. The next few seconds were a blur, an agonizing split moment where you wanted to push away from her and run. To where, you couldn't remember, because now she had locked her lips firmly against yours. Her breaths were shuddery and hands gripping tight, asking a silent request to never be let go. That feeling of her lips, the gentle caress of her tongue and the way you two seemed to just _fit _washed away the remaining muck shrouding your thoughts.

Hot tears are spilling from her eyes, rolling down both of your cheeks. The closeness feels like something beyond words. You don't want it to end, ever. The thoughts of leaving, going far away, were reversed now. You never wanted to leave this spot or to give this up. The feeling of your legs sliding atop one another and her body wrapped tightly around yours. The critical purpose of each attack of her mouth – to let you know she wasn't going to give up on you – meant you had to keep strong.

If not for yourself, then for her.


End file.
